Requiem For The Wolf
by anemille
Summary: A moment of reflection for a man that truly deserves it. MAJOR SPOILERS for Deathly Hallows.


This one shot has no plot really, it's more of a ramble. It does, however, contain MAJOR SPOILERS for Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, so please, if you don't want to be spoiled, don't read on. Other than that, this is for a character that I feel really deserves acknowledgment, so I've given it a go!

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Requiem For The Wolf

Tendrils of mist were winding their way around the slate coated turrets of Hogwarts castle; despite the triumph of good over evil, the persistent presence of the dementors over the past year had left a mark on the world, like a faded tattoo. The stone corridors of the castle were cold and silent, debris-strewn; where only hours before spells had ricocheted, the intent behind them fuelled by adrenalin and loathing, there was now only pale stone, pock-marked with damage of fury. The torches that had burned fiercely in the rage of the battle were now flickering weakly in the turbulent air, in the frenzy of the fight, the glass of the windows had been fractured and now lay like a broken mirror on the floor, the wind whipping in, coursing into nothingness at the end of the corridor.

The students were long gone and without their fervour, their clumsy enthusiasm and their hopeful optimism, a heavy, mournful silence had descended on the school. It snaked its way around the stonework, eventually settling in the centre of the castle, the place where the only life was stirring, albeit amongst the strongest stench of death. The Great Hall was illuminated by the pale gold of the torches, casting dancing light on the silent, standing figures whose only signs of life were the steady rise and fall of their chests. The central figure was that of an elderly woman, hunched so she looked older, wisps of hair fallen from her usually tight bun, her square glasses gleaming in torchlight, the spark of determination and pride not quite extinguished from her eyes. A little further away a cluster of people were steady in their silent sorrow; their tears catching the light just as their flaming red hair did, the middle figure standing straightest, proudest, his face oddly asymmetric. A scattering of others were humble in their silence, in their midst sat a crumpled girl with eyes that betrayed fatigue, her bushy hair swept back from her face and a smaller figure, childlike except for elfin ears and greying skin, a locket gleaming on his chest, his gaze upon a lone form that paced among the dead, his jet black hair concealing a scar in the shape of a lightning bolt.

Bodies had been laid neatly in orderly rows, rows of expressionless faces, their skin and hair already taking on an air of translucency. The body of a middle-aged man lay near to the end of the second row. In life his tired demeanour and greying appearance had made him look older, now, in death, his innocence dredged up reflections of the child he had once been. Not a mark had stained his skin, his exceptional skill had served him well as one… two… ten death eaters had fallen at his feet. The ever-present wolf within him had given him an edge, a ferocity reserved only for those dark times. Had his eyes been open, Harry felt sure that he would have been able to see the Remus Lupin that he had known, his greatest moments and the enduring hope and love in his character.

As his teacher in the third year, the ringing sound of laughter in his classroom, the indignant face of Hermione as once again textbooks were slipped back into bags, the fatherly advice given with a tired smile and knowing look, the boggart with its vulture topped hat quivering in the faux-Snape's rage, the smile as he embraced his old friend in the Shrieking Shack…

As the voice of reason in his fifth and sixth years, his bravery as a spy within the camps of bloodthirsty beings, his resolve in the face of same, his quietly understanding manner, his part in the rescue of Harry from Privet Drive, the realisation of his love for Nymphadora Tonks and then his overwhelming need to stay away from her, to keep her safe…

As a husband and a father in this last year, the excited tone of voice betraying his pleasure in his marriage to Tonks, his discovery that he was to be a father, the delight in his eyes when he had turned up in the midst of a storm at Shell Cottage to announce the birth of his child, the pride that shone through when he showed them pictures of Teddy, his strength and prowess in the final battle, the sadness and yet fulfilment in his expression in the split second that he fell…

And now there he lay, given no elevation above the others, treated as he would have always wanted – despite his greatness, despite the wolf – as an equal.


End file.
